Wolves in the Walls
by ohgoditsbriony
Summary: It's a messed-up, worn-out fairytale. —Sasuke/Hinata, Neji/Sasuke


**disclaimer: **I do not own Naruto.  
><strong>summary: <strong>It's a messed-up, worn-out fairytale. —Neji/Sasuke/Hinata  
><strong>notes: <strong>I just really want to get back into writing for Naruto, since I love it so much—_especially _Sasuke and Hinata.

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Wolves in the Walls

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_you're gone, gone, gone away, i watched you disappear  
>all that's left is the ghost<br>of you_

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It always seemed to rain in Otogakure.

Sasuke shoved his hands into his pockets, tilting his head upwards slightly, narrowing his eyes up at the heavy, grey sky—it was something he'd begun to notice, actually, and he'd come to realise that he didn't mind the rain. He wasn't such a fan of wet socks, sure, but the actual rain itself—he could deal with that. He stayed where he was, hunching his shoulders against the weather, and then, after a moment's thought, slipped a hand into his jacket; for a few moments, he struggled with untangling the wires wrapped around his headphones, but within seconds he was done. He slipped them into his ears, and, almost instantly, something loud and angry, with plenty of guitars and a heavy drumbeat, began to play.

He relaxed, then.

For about a minute longer, he stayed still, blocking the entrance to the block of flats he lived at—not that anyone ever really wanted to enter them. They were shitty and grey, all cracked windows and broken bits of slate, smashed bottles in the hallways and the stink of piss in the elevator. It wasn't beautiful or brilliant, sure—and they could definitely afford to buy a hell of a lot more with the money his parents had left him—but his brother had quite liked it, and so did Sasuke. The flat they'd bought was right up at the top, with two huge, oval windows through which he could see the whole of the city, and it was so beautiful at night. He shifted slightly, letting out the smallest, slightest of sighs, and then stepped forwards, stepping into the rain, into the busy streets of Konoha, and let the crowd of people sweep him up. He walked in time with the flow of people, hands tucked into his pockets, head bowed against the weather—within moments, he was soaked through. He'd forgotten his jacket and his hoodie was offering very little protection. Water crept down his chin, down his neck, pooling in his shoes, drenching his shirt; his hair clung to his forehead, obscuring his vision. It wasn't likely that he was about to get any dryer, and so he simply hurried along, ignoring the world as it passed him by.

That was fine. He had a feeling that the world was ignoring him, too.

He turned a corner, cutting across the road just as the traffic lights switched from red to amber—a car honked at him, angry and irritated, and he simply rolled his eyes, the hint of a smirk tugging at his lips.

Keeping his head ducked low, then, he continued on his way, speeding up ever so slightly; for a few awful seconds, he thought he was going to be late. He couldn't—he didn't think he'd be able to deal with that. He'd first started making the journey not long after he'd moved to Otogakure with his brother, at the age of eleven, and not once had he ever been late—and he wasn't about to start now. He shook his head, shaking his fringe out of his eyes, droplets of rain spattering across his shoulders and the people closest to him—and then he cut across the stream of people heading in the opposite direction to him, ignoring the cries of irritation and annoyance that echoed after him, and instead made his way towards an alleyway, shrouded by bushes and hidden by a high, grey, spiked fence.

It was dark down the alleyway—he could barely see a few footsteps ahead of him, and he hesitated then, as he always did, unhooking his headphones from his ears. As always, there was that fleeting sense of raw, unadulterated panic—as if he were looking into the jaws of some hideous beast as opposed to the entrance to a relatively harmless alleyway—but then it was gone, as quickly as it had come.

He'd always felt that way, ever since he was a kid.

He'd never walked through the alley after night.

Still, it was daytime now, and bright—even if it _was _raining—and so Sasuke simply frowned, as he always did, momentarily frustrated by his inability to move. It took him another few seconds to actually take a step forwards, and then he was walking again, hands shoved firmly into his pockets, his headphones dangling uselessly around his neck; his shoulders were tense, the muscles in his neck taut, and he couldn't stop himself from listening out for any possible noise. He always felt as if eyes were watching him, as he walked deeper into shadows, and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck prick upwards, standing to attention. It was an unfounded, ridiculous fear, but he felt it nonetheless—and he began to walk faster, suddenly all to aware of the sound of rain hitting the ground, splashing against glass and rocks and melting into the dirt below. It was as if every single little sound had become so much _louder._

And oh, he _swore _he heard footsteps behind him, soft and silent and _deadly—_

He shuddered.

Time to calm his tits, as Suigetsu would say, and he forced himself to breathe evenly again, wondering if he was a little too old to still be so scared of the dark—even if he did have the best of reasons to be so terrified. He tried his hardest not to think of anything—to ignore that curious, familiar sensation that everything was _wrong_—but the cold sweat was still there; his hands were balled into shaking, trembling fists, and his breathing quickened until there were only short, sharp pants. He barely noticed he was running—he _never _noticed he was running—until he found himself skidding to a halt, blinking as he emerged from the shadowed alleyway and into the area beyond. He put his hands on his knees, bending as he struggled to regain his breath; nineteen years old, and he still couldn't stand the dark—still couldn't make it down a dark alleyway without breaking out into a sprint.

He wondered, absently, if things would ever change.

Almost as soon as he thought it, vivid images of two bodies sculpted together, grotesque but beautiful, nursing each other almost as if they were only asleep—but the blood, thick and heavy, dripping and dripping and dripping. He remembered choking and slipping and falling into a pool of it; he remembered how it soaked his skin, and his mother on the bed, groaning, screaming, pleading for help—and then he remembered the man dressed in the white kimono. Like an _angel, _he remembered. So _beautiful._ He remembered the way he swept across the room, elegant, and placed a bloody kiss upon his mother's cheek—and then that ripping, that tearing, and the splash of blood as he bit into her; and then that smile as he chewed and hummed and drank and—

Sasuke forced himself to _stop _remembering.

He straightened.

He wasn't back there, anymore—he wasn't seven years old, watching his mother writhe in blissful agony—and he wasn't back in that alleyway, either, racing from the dark and the shadows, and searching for an escape.

He was _here._

Glancing around him, Sasuke gazed out at his lonely little park.

Very few people knew Otogakure had a park—after all, Otogakure was hardly what you'd call a holiday hotspot—and so it was often empty, forgotten. He'd only ever been there on his own; it was his sanctuary, and if Karin and the others didn't know where it was, then he wasn't about to go out of his way to tell them. There was a tiny little pond, dirty and grotty—two ducks swam across the grimy water, mangy and scrawny, undoubtedly underfed and obviously starving. In front of the pond was a wooden bench—it had once been red, but the paint was peeling away, cracked and dry, and the wood below was rotten and damp. There was a swing for children, but it was lopsided and screeched when you sat on it—not that it really mattered, as there were never any children there anyway. It was a lonely and sad park, but it was _his _park.

And there—stood in front of that miserable little pond with a polystyrene coffee cup clutched in her hand, dark hair clasped behind her head in a neat little bun—she was. Her coat was inky black against her pale skin, buttoned up to just below her chin, and she had a pale, lilac scarf wrapped loosely around her neck; a few thin wisps of hair blew into her eyes—she seemed mostly dry, shielded from the rain by an umbrella, but she was wearing bright yellow wellies, clashing with her dark clothing. She didn't turn when Sasuke approached—didn't even acknowledge his presence—but she knew he was there; he _knew _that. He was certain of that. She didn't glance up when he came to stand next to her, watching the rain cause ripples across the grimy pond surface, but he knew she knew he was there. That was pretty much as it always was; and so they stood in silence, practically shoulder to shoulder, side by side. She tipped her umbrella slightly to the side, so that it was shrouding them both, and Sasuke blinked droplets of water out of his eyes, where they clung to his eyelashes.

He glanced across at her.

She was wearing sunglasses again.

Then—

"Hey," he said.

"Hey," she repeated, her voice soft, sweet—like sugar, he thought, but perhaps that wasn't a good enough comparison. It wasn't sickly like sugar; it was gentle, but kind, and maybe—just maybe—there was a little bit of something else. He couldn't place it.

"You're here."

"As are you," she said, smiling slightly then. "_Again_."

He didn't reply to that.

There was something about the way she said it, as if it had more significance than he realised—her voice a little hesitant, but that last word so strong, standing out amongst the rest. He glanced across at her, studying her profile—he watched as she took a sip of her coffee, curls of steam unfurling from the polystyrene cup as she placed it to her lips. She slumped afterwards, letting out a breathy little sigh as her entire body relaxed. He thought that maybe she was watching him, too, out of the corner of her eyes, and so he cleared his throat, turning away and peering out at the pond again.

He watched the way the rain left ripples on the water.

She spoke again, then.

"How are you?"

"Good."

"I'm glad."

"You?"

"I'm good, too."

"Hn."

He couldn't bring himself to look at her, but he knew she was watching him.

He felt himself jump, his body visibly jolting, as her fingers came to rest gentle and soft at his cheek. She very rarely touched him, but when she did, she always stroked her fingers across his jaw, down his neck, and he was always surprised by how cold her touch was.

Like bone, almost.

"I enjoy our talks," she said, quietly, and then chuckled softly, "Even if you never talk much."

She had turned fully towards him, her fingers stilling on his face; he found himself caught for a moment, mesmerised by her eyes. The first time he had met her here, when he had found her sat upon the swing, still as a statue, he had seen her eyes—seen them, pools of white, clear as water, white as swans—and thought her blind, until she had tipped her head and looked up at him with a clear, bright smile. When he'd looked into her eyes then, it had felt like he was drowning, like he was submerged in water, coughing and spluttering as he attempted to drag himself out.

He tore his gaze away and found himself suddenly transfixed by her yellow wellies instead.

"…so do I," he replied, eventually. His voice felt hoarse, his words scratching at his throat like gravel.

Her hand brushed slowly down his jaw, coming to rest gently at his throat.

His shoulders tightened and his back tensed, and he realised, suddenly, that he was holding his breath.

Her thumb moved softly over his pulse.

"You're still so lonely," she said, and her voice was barely a whisper.

He could feel her gaze hot on his face and he didn't reply, choosing instead to stubbornly stare out at the murky pond in front of them. Her hand felt heavy on his throat—_like a noose_, his mind helpfully supplied—and his skin felt cold and clammy; and he realised he felt _relief _when she finally moved her hand away, stroking once over the pale skin of his collarbone before letting it fall down by her side. His hands were trembling, slightly, the bitten crescents of his nails digging tiny moon shapes into the palm of his hands. He snuck a glance at her, then, out of the corner of his eye, and saw the tiny smile on her lips as she began to turn away.

"Will I—am I going to see you again?" He asked, uncertain.

She turned fully towards him, and the rain seemed to bounce off her, framing her like a halo.

"Of course, Sasuke," she said, and smiled. "We'll always find each other."

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Sasuke shoved his hands into his pockets, kicking his feet out in front of him as he leaned back in his chair. He closed his eyes, lips a thin, grim line, and counted slowly down from ten, forcing himself to relax—his shoulders were tense, the muscles in his neck taut, and he was having trouble calming his breathing. Unable to stop himself, he frowned, eyes still closed, practically scowling up at the ceiling.

He heard frantic scribbling from his left.

"Please, Sasuke-kun," a voice spoke, "_Relax."_

His eyes flew open, and his gaze shot to the side, where Kabuto peered back at him, his face a mask of concern and curiosity, betrayed only by the obviously-forced smile on his lips. His eyes crinkled into a cheerful grin behind his glasses, and then he wrote something down on his clipboard again, not even looking down as he did so. Sasuke's frown simply deepened then, and he resisted the urge to scowl—to tell _him _to calm down, because it was so _difficult—_but, instead, blew out, counting down again. It was a technique his brother had told him about, and he really hoped that it worked.

He closed his eyes again.

"Better," Kabuto said, all the while writing frantically on his clipboard, and Sasuke fought the urge to smash it into the other's face. "Now, then, shall we begin?"

He jerked his head in a nod.

"Let me hear you say it, Sasuke-kun."

"Hn."

"I suppose that's close enough," Kabuto murmured, before shifting slightly; it sounded like he was putting his pen away, because when he spoke again, his voice was closer, softer, nearer. It was a whisper in his ear, and it felt _dangerous—_but Sasuke forced himself to calm down again, because that was the paranoia speaking and, at the moment, he saw everything and everyone as a possible danger. "How have you been?"

"Good."

"Better?"

"Better."

"Well, I'm certainly glad to hear that you're making progress. Have the dreams returned?"

"…no."

"Sasuke-kun, this will be much easier if you tell me the truth."

"Hn."

"Do you still see the same thing?"

"Yes."

"And that would be…?"

"You_ know_ what I see," Sasuke snapped, unable to stop himself, and his eyes shot open. "I've already _said_."

Kabuto didn't even look surprised. He had moved closer, Sasuke noted—his chair was practically stuck to Sasuke's side, and he was sat with his hands linked in front of his chin, elbows placed on his knees. He didn't look like a therapist—there was no concern in his eyes—but he did look very, _very _curious, and he tilted his head, glasses flashing in the light, momentarily blinding Sasuke and shielding the other's eyes. There was a long period in which they simply gazed at each other, Sasuke's eyes challenging and angry—and there was a silent sort of challenge in Kabuto's eyes, too, unspoken but very obviously there.

Then he leant forwards, his false smile widening.

"Humour me, Sasuke-kun."

There was a brief, fleeting moment where Sasuke felt the overwhelming urge to tell Kabuto to go and fuck himself—but just as quickly as the feeling came, it vanished, and he sank back in his seat. He rubbed a hand wearily across his face, frowning momentarily; he didn't feel the burning need to defy Kabuto, not right then when he was feeling so suddenly exhausted. Instead, he thought of his dream—of the man in the tailored coat, elegant, beautiful, faceless—and let out a resigned, defeated sigh.

"It was him. Again. As you know."

"Continue, please," Kabuto replied, then, frightfully polite again. "What was his name?"

"You _know."_

"Sasuke-kun, is there really any need to be this difficult?"

"There is no need for me to repeat myself."

"_Honestly—"_

"You already _know."_

Kabuto opened his mouth, as if to reply, and then paused; then, shaking his head, he picked his clipboard back up and clicked his pen pointedly. He made a huge point of scribbling something meaningful down on his paper, every now and then glancing back up at Sasuke with this disappointed look on his face, his eyebrows raised, but Sasuke barely noticed. He scowled stubbornly up at the ceiling. The dreams were stupid—they were ridiculous and pathetic, and, yet, _still _he managed to wake up shaking and shivering, cold sweat gleaming on his chest, eyes wide in terror.

He didn't need to remember the dreams right now.

He didn't _want _to.

Absently, he wondered why the hell Itachi had even bothered getting him a shrink—because that was what Kabuto was, after all—and a particularly shit one at that. He'd been going to the therapy sessions since he was eleven—ever since he'd come to Otogakure, actually; it had been one of the reasons why they'd moved—and he couldn't remember a single time when Kabuto had actually done something useful. He still had the dreams, after all, and he couldn't—he couldn't go out at night.

Not again.

Sasuke glanced at the clock.

Another forty-five minutes.

He shut his eyes.

Then, groaning, he stood up—he stretched, swinging his arms up above his head and rolling his neck; he noticed the sound of pen against paper had vanished, and when he opened his eyes again, Kabuto was peering at it from over the top of his glasses, his mouth a thin line. Sasuke didn't say anything—then, shrugging his shoulders, he shoved his hands into his pockets, spinning on his heels and heading towards the door. It was chipped, old, thick—and, just as Sasuke reached out to grip the handle and push it open, Kabuto cleared his throat.

He glanced back over his shoulder.

Kabuto pushed his glasses up his nose, smile unwavering. "Your brother _will _hear about this, you know."

"He always does," Sasuke said, and then shrugged his shoulders again, turning away—he lifted a hand in farewell, pulling the door open with his other hand, and then lingered briefly in the doorway. "Tell him I'll do double the shrink time next week, then."

"You can't run from this, Sasuke-kun."

"I'm not running."

"Oh, but you _are_," Kabuto's voice suddenly seemed eerie, a sing-song catcall, and it made the hairs on the back of Sasuke's neck stand on end. "You've been running from your dreams ever since you were seven years old, Sasuke-kun, and one day—one day, they're going to catch up with you."

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When Sasuke stepped out of Kabuto's office, the rain had begun to let up slightly. He paused on the step again, just as he'd done earlier when he'd left his flat, unsure of whether or not to walk all the way home or stop off at the library—it was quiet there, and while the librarian, Kin, was usually loud and talkative, she had a habit of ignoring Sasuke, which was something he was more than grateful for. Actually, the more he thought about it, the more appealing the prospect of going to the library sounded—he could find a corner and just sit, plug his headphones in and ignore the world. He'd have headed home, but Itachi would be back soon—and Kabuto would have told his brother, as he'd threatened.

Or —

_Or—_

He wondered absently if that girl would still be at the park.

He didn't know where else she'd go; he'd never seen her outside of the park—he'd never seen her walking through the streets or in any of the shops. He'd head back and see if she was still there; he quite enjoyed talking to her, and she had this habit of making him feel less… like himself. Less like his past was his own, and more like he could be anyone with her—around her. It was like she could cast a spell over him; she was enchanting and mesmerising in her own right, and she made Sasuke feel _better._

He took a step forwards.

He'd go and see if she was still there.

Almost as soon as he'd moved, pale arms latched around his waist, squeezing tightly, and a head collided with his chest, bright scarlet hair tickling his nose. There was this high-pitched squeal of pleasure, and then Karin looked up, her gaze meeting his, and raised an eyebrow in a gesture that was no doubt supposed to be flirtatious and suggestive; Sasuke rolled his eyes, untangling himself swiftly and smoothly from Karin, with a murmured, "Not today."

"Aw, but _Sasuke-kun."_

"No."

"You _never—"_

"I said no."

Karin let out a huff of protest, still stood a couple of steps away from him—and then she seemed to actually realise he was walking away. Quickly, she slid into step alongside him, walking briskly to keep up with his steady walk; she glowered up at him from beneath her glasses, arms folded across her chest. "You _never _come out with us. Ever."

"I'm not in the mood."

"You're _never _in the mood."

"You jump me right outside a session with Kabuto, Karin," Sasuke rolled his eyes. "Do you really _expect _me to be in the mood for this?"

"But—but I even got Juugo to keep a table!"

"Hn."

"Just this once?"

"No."

"But we're your _friends—"_

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"—idiot, it's our _job _to be worried about you," Naruto scowled, shoving his hands on Sasuke's chest, holding him in place. His knuckles were bloody and broken—there was a nasty bruise blooming on his cheekbone, just below his eye, and he looked absolutely furious; there was confusion swimming in his eyes, though.

He was confused.

Angry.

_Hurt._

Sasuke pushed his hands away.

Seconds later, they were back again, balled in the material of his shirt.

Seven years old, and Naruto was the most stubborn person Sasuke knew.

"Get _off _me_."_

"_No!"_

Arms wrapped around his waist, then—Sakura pressed her head against his back, a few strands of blossom-pink hair slipping over his shoulder, tickling the nape of his neck and the tops of his arms. She clung to him, holding tight, and when she spoke, her voice trembled—not out of fear, though, or sadness. It was rage, static in the air and thick in her voice, and when she said, "Why can't you get it through your stupid head? We're not just going to _leave _you!", Sasuke almost lashed out, almost hit them, almost shouted and raged and ranted and wondered—

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"Why are you doing this?" Sasuke asked absently, glancing down at Karin—he wasn't particularly interested, not really, but the question provided them both a distraction from the fact that Sasuke was trying his hardest to find a means of escape. He watched as she pushed her glasses up her nose, studying her hands absently—they were different to Sakura's. These were slim and nimble, _girl's _hands, but they were bruised too; little bruises on the knuckles, dotted around the wrists, here and there.

Sakura's hadn't been bruised, but he remembered once that her knuckles had been split and bleeding, and he remembered tasting her blood on his lips.

Huh.

He pushed the thought away.

"Because we worry about you," Karin said, gently, as if she were talking to a child.

When he looked down at her—when he met her eyes—he saw worry there, bright and sharp like a nail, and just the slightest bit of fondness glistening at the edges. He had always thought her eyes were beautiful, a deep red the colour of rubies, and, while they weren't the same colour as Sakura's, both girls were similar in the way they showed themselves in their eyes. Both were similar in the way he could tell every little tiny thing they were thinking just from the way they looked at him.

Right now, Karin was worried about him—worse than that, she _pitied _him.

"Hn," he grunted, his lips tugging downwards at the corners, and he spun away from her on the ball of his heels and began to walk away.

Overhead, the clouds were a deep, stormy grey.

Unlike Sakura, though, Karin never followed him.

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When he finally made it back to the flat, Sasuke was grateful to find it empty—for whatever reason, Itachi wasn't back from work yet, which pretty much undoubtedly meant that Kabuto had called him about the unsuccessful session. Whenever bad news was delivered about Sasuke, his brother had a habit of going out and drinking just a little too much to make up for it. Ever since their parents had died, Itachi had taken on the role of the concerned parental figure to the point where he was a little overbearing and entirely overprotective; it was nice, sometimes, though Sasuke would never admit it, but generally it irritated him to no end, because it made Sasuke feel like he was something small and fragile that needed to be protected. He snorted at the idea, kicked his shoes off, and headed into the cramped kitchen area—one of the taps was leaky and dripped all the time, but the noise was somewhat comforting in the dark, empty flat. He pulled open the fridge, pulled out one of the beers Itachi had labelled as his with sticky post-it notes, and picked up the half-eaten plate of Chinese food he'd left in there last night. He shoved it in the little microwave, which stuttered and spluttered before finally whirring to life, and then headed into his room until his food had finished heating up.

His room was smaller than Itachi's, with a low, slanted ceiling but wide, oval windows, through which he could see the entire city below him, as if its secrets were his to uncover, to explore. His bed—a mess of blankets and pillows strewn across a threadbare mattress on the ground—was positioned beneath where the ceiling was at its lowest; he had no wardrobe, no drawers, but instead the cardboard boxes he'd used when he'd moved there, still with his clothes tucked messily inside. The room itself was massively impersonal—aside from its messiness, there was nothing of Sasuke about it, unless you looked beside the bed and found the cardboard shoebox he kept hidden away beneath a pile of clothes.

He pulled out that shoebox now, placing it gingerly on the blankets as he did every day, before crossing back over to one of the moving boxes. He reached inside, pulled out a box of cigarettes, and then pushed open his bedroom window, resting his arms on the ledge and gazing out at the streets below. For a few moments, he toyed with his lighter, flicking it on and off, before pressing the cigarette against his lips and inhaling, breathing smoke into the damp air.

He found it difficult to smoke, though smoking usually cleared his mind. He could still feel the phantom touch of those fingers on his throat, making his skin feel hot and almost itchy.

A taxi pulled up outside the block of flats and, down on the street below, he saw his brother step out, his black tailored coat turned up at the collar. He watched as he turned and paid, before lifting his face up to the sky and staring straight at Sasuke—somehow, Sasuke always knew when his brother was looking directly at him. He lifted a hand lazily in a wave, before pulling his cigarette back to his lips, taking a drag, and then flicking the still-burning butt over the edge of his window. He watched as it floated down to the ground, ash and smoke softly staining the sky. It hit the ground somewhere next to Itachi—he saw his brother lift his foot and stamp out any burning embers, before heading inside. It would take him five minutes to reach their flat—longer if he took the elevator.

Sasuke picked up the shoebox, his hand lingering briefly at the corner, as if about to open it. From the kitchen, there came the sound of the microwave beeping, and so he returned the box to the mess of clothes he had pulled it from and left the room.

He wouldn't open it today.

Not today.

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"You walked out of your psychiatry session," Itachi said. "Again."

Sasuke glanced up at his brother from where he lay sprawled across the sofa, the plate of Chinese food balanced on his wrinkled his nose. "How are you so dry? It was pissing it down today."

"I took an umbrella," Itachi sniffed, before pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

He looked like their mother when he stood like that, with one hand slung lazily on his hip, the other at his head, his hair tied back neatly behind his head in a low, long ponytail. Itachi had always looked more like Mikoto than Fugaku, with a softer, rounder face and the same long hair and that same soft, slow smile—but he had their father's eyes, dark and serious. He was dressed in a black suit, tight-fitting and well-tailored, tucked in at the waist, but he'd slung his jacket over his shoulder upon entering the flat, and kicked off his shoes. The socks he was wearing were old ones—Sasuke remembered buying them for him one birthday when they were both much younger. They'd been far too big for Itachi then, but the brightly-coloured red-and-blue tomato pattern had caught Sasuke's eye when he was younger and so he'd spent all his pocket money on them nonetheless.

He couldn't look at them now—they made his head hurt and his throat feel tight.

Itachi was scanning his face, critically, calculating. "You won't get better. Not like this."

"I don't need to get better," Sasuke replied quickly, and shovelled a spoonful of food into his mouth so that he wasn't required to say anything else.

He knew Itachi was watching him—he could _feel _it. His brother was possibly the only person he knew who could truly _stare. _He could watch you from across a crowded room, and you'd be able to feel his presence as if you and he were the only people in that room—hell, he could probably watch you from a mile away and you'd feel it. It was something about his eyes. They were dark, yes, like Sasuke's—so dark, they appeared black—but perhaps it was the bags underneath them, deep and heavy, that offered an intensity to his stare. He looked as if he had seen things nobody was supposed to—which was somewhat ironic, Sasuke supposed, because Itachi hadn't been there.

He hadn't had to see it, and Sasuke _had._

"The dreams won't go away if you don't tell someone about them," Itachi said.

"I don't have the dreams anymore—"

"I can hear you," Itachi cut across, and his lips curled into a false, blank smile. "These walls aren't soundproof, little brother."

Sasuke hated when he called him that—when he made Sasuke seem vulnerable and small and _breakable._

He scowled and didn't reply, spearing a piece of chicken viciously with his fork.

Itachi watched him for a moment longer.

Then, he spoke again:

"Have you spoken to your friends?"

Sasuke hesitated for a moment. "Suigetsu and the others are busy. They don't want to—"

"Not them. Your _real _friends."

That hurt like a slap in the face, and Sasuke visibly flinched.

"They worry about you," Itachi continued. "They've taken to calling me. It's… _irritating."_

"Tell them to stop, then," Sasuke replied grumpily, and continued eating.

"You ought to talk to them."

"I'm not going to. I'm—they're not part of this, not anymore."

Itachi was quiet then, and Sasuke didn't want to look at him—didn't want to catch his eye. Whenever his brother became quiet like this, Sasuke could see what he was thinking written plainly across his face; he could see the pity in his eyes, the anger that he hadn't been able to protect his little brother from something so awful, and the sadness. This deep, horrible, awful sadness; heavy and black, and so wide and vast, like the night sky.

Inescapable sadness.

Sasuke didn't want to see it.

He didn't want to _hear _it, not anymore.

He shoved his plate onto the ground and swung his legs so that he was sitting up. Stretching, he said, "I'm going out."

"Out?" Itachi repeated, tilting his head. His voice sounded blank, monotone, but Sasuke could detect the hint of worry there; his brother didn't like the idea of Sasuke out on his own, especially when it was late. It had taken Itachi enough convincing to leave Sasuke at the flat on his own, when they'd first moved there, let alone let Sasuke go and about on his own—and even then, it was still difficult.

He rolled his eyes, "I won't be long. I'm meeting Karin; she's… _out."_

Itachi glanced at the clock propped up against the wall. "Be back by eleven."

"Sure," Sasuke replied disinterestedly, as he tugged his hoodie back over his head. "Don't stay up."

"If you're late, I'll call the police," Itachi replied, not a hint of humour in his voice.

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It was almost completely dark when Sasuke set foot on the streets below, though the night was still alive and noisy; the streets were lit up by amber lamps, car lights hitting his face as they zoomed past, the lights from windows still casting their glow across the pavement. He shoved his hands into his pockets. It had stopped raining completely, but the night still felt cold and damp, and he hunched his shoulders, lowering his head as he walked quickly and briskly through the night. He'd left his music at home, his headphones tossed across his bedroom floor, and he missed it; he didn't like hearing the sound of his own breathing, harsh and heavy, muffling the sound of the city around him. His head was pounding—when he closed his eyes, the world felt as though it was spinning, and he had to sit down at the edge of the pavement; had to place his head in his hands and take deep, shaky breaths through his nose, out his mouth, inhale, exhale, _inhale—_

His head began to clear a little, and his breathing became calmer.

He rubbed his knuckles across his eyes. He'd walked further than he'd planned—he hadn't been planning on meeting Karin at all, but he'd needed to escape Itachi. He'd needed the fresh air.

His legs felt unsteady as he pushed himself to his feet.

He'd turn back, he decided, but he found that he'd walked instinctively to the alleyway from earlier—the same alleyway he always crossed through to reach the park. It seemed too dark, now, deep and long, almost like a tunnel. He found himself drawn towards it, taking a shaky step forwards into the street, crossing over towards it. He didn't know what about it looked so different—maybe it was the darkness, or the night, somehow distorting it and changing it into something scary and… _different. _He felt a sudden burning desire to walk down it, to go to the park on the other side; he suddenly felt as though if he didn't do it now, if he was unable to walk down there right at that second, he wouldn't be able to walk down there ever again.

He wouldn't be able to see _her _ever again.

Not for the last time, he felt her phantom touch at his neck.

Rubbing gingerly at his skin with the back of his hand, he stepped into the alleyway.

The more he walked, the more he wished he'd bought his phone along with him. At least then he'd have had the light from the screen to illuminate the way. Now, it seemed as if the darkness was making the alleyway stretch longer and longer, much longer than it had been when he'd walked down there earlier in the day. A single flickering streetlight came into view, down near the end of the alleyway, and, beneath the orange light, he saw the park from earlier. It seemed sombre beneath the light of the moon; despite its ordinary nature, it was suddenly beautiful, the single swing creaking softly in the slight wind. The pond was lit by light, and it seemed almost as if someone had captured a pool of moonlight and placed it in the middle of the park for all to see. His heart seemed to jolt in his chest, and he sped up slightly.

Out of sight, somebody was humming.

That was when he felt it.

He faltered, suddenly uncertain, his heartbeat rapid in his chest—too fast, too heavy, too quick. It felt as if there were some sort of electricity in the air, charging his skin and making all the hairs on his body stand to attention, as if something had swept overhead and the world around him had just—_changed, _ever so slightly. It had just gone a little bit wrong. He suddenly felt hot, his back tense and his shoulders rigid, and his eyes had gone very, very wide—

He was _afraid._

No, he was completely _terrified._

A man—dressed in a kimono as white as the moon, with pale skin and hair dripping like ink—stepped beneath the amber streetlight.

Sasuke couldn't see his face, no, but he _knew._

He couldn't move—couldn't bring himself to take even one step backwards, despite the fact that every sense in his body was screaming for him to run. He could feel the adrenaline running hot through his veins; he could hear his own breathing, sharp and fast, cutting the night sky; and yet he still couldn't make himself _run. _He couldn't even move—couldn't even lift a hand. The man—the _same _man—was moving slowly, teasingly, trailing his fingers across the brick of the alley wall beside him; there was a horrible beauty to his movements, to his walk, and Sasuke was mesmerised, watching with short, sharp breaths as the man came closer and closer.

He couldn't run—couldn't even _move._

All he could do was _wait._

It was the man who was humming—soft and low, from the back of his throat, something old and slow.

Had he been humming the last time Sasuke had seen him?

The man was close, now—too close, far too close—and Sasuke knew he'd missed his chance to escape; a little voice in the back of his head was still screaming at him to run, run, _run_, but somehow he knew it would make no difference now. He managed a tiny, jerking step backwards; and the man moved so quickly, then, it seemed as if he had disappeared. One second, he was a distance away, humming softly, the hint of a smile ghosting across his lips; the next, he was suddenly directly in front of Sasuke, just a breath away, and that drew a startled, scared yelp from Sasuke's lips, and it suddenly felt as if the spell was broken. He took another step backwards and stumbled over his own legs, tripping in his haste to get away and landing on the floor, scraping his hands on the gravel as he scrambled backwards nonetheless.

His back hit the wall, and he realised the man hadn't moved at all—that he was still smiling.

"You know," the man said conversationally, and took a step forwards. "I hadn't expected to see you again. This is—_surprising, _I suppose."

Sasuke found he couldn't speak—he couldn't make a single sound.

His heart was a drumbeat in his chest—too fast, too fast, _too fast—_

The man was directly in front of him, then, and he dropped into a crouch; it was then that Sasuke was able to see that he wasn't a man at all, but instead a boy. He looked maybe a year older than Sasuke, at least, but not older than Itachi at all; his skin was smooth and almost as pale as the kimono he wore—sickly, almost, the colour of parchment. His hair was as black as an inkstain, tied loosely at his back, and the smile he wore was cruel. It was his eyes Sasuke recognised—the same white as the girl from the park.

White as bone.

White as death.

"Do you remember me?" The man—_boy_—asked, casually. He lifted a hand and crooked his forefinger, stroking his finger along Sasuke's jaw slowly and softly.

He found that he couldn't look away—that, although he knew something dangerous would surely happen, he couldn't look away from those white, white eyes. He felt the boy's finger linger at his chin, before dragging down over his throat, forcing Sasuke to bare his throat; it was only then that he was able to tear his gaze away, forced instead to look at the black night sky, which he felt seemed to want to swallow him whole.

"Of course you remember me—I remember _you_," the boy was saying, distantly. "How could you forget?"

He gripped Sasuke's chin harshly then, pinching his face between his fingers and forcing Sasuke to look at him again. His nails felt too sharp, like razorblades cutting into his skin.

The boy's smile was lovely even in its cruelty.

The two sharpened incisors that bit into his bottom lip shone bright and white in the light.

"I killed your parents, after all."

The hand curled around his throat and forced his head back, forcing him to face the other way.

That was when panic finally hit Sasuke, and he found he could move. His hands scratched and clawed at the hand at his throat, desperate and frantic, but it felt almost as if the boy were barely holding him at all; there was next to no real pressure or power behind his grip, and yet Sasuke was unable to move him even slightly. He couldn't push him away—couldn't kick out at him. He felt utterly helpless; he felt every inch as fragile and breakable as he knew Itachi had assumed him to be, and he suddenly felt a pang of raw, burning pain at the thought of his brother—at the thought of Itachi's face when Sasuke would never come home that night, or any night after, his body mauled in an alleyway, no doubt.

There had been so much _blood _when his parents had been killed.

It had been so _messy. _

He felt the boy's breath hot on his throat and shuddered, tried to push away, arcing his back and attempting to writhe out of the other's grasp, but it seemed impossible. He lifted his hand in an attempt to hit the other across the face, but the boy caught his wrist before he could even move it, squeezing ever so gently—but that was enough pressure to make Sasuke snarl in pain, feeling his bones cracking and creaking beneath the boy's grasp.

He let himself go limp, his other hand pinned against his chest, and the boy let up the pressure slightly.

He felt the tips of something sharp—_teeth_, his mind helpfully supplied—press down on his neck.

Sasuke almost sobbed, squeezing his eyes shut and gritting his teeth.

And then, just as quickly as the pressure had been there, it disappeared again.

When he was finally able to open his eyes, he saw that the alleyway was empty.

Wild eyed and breathing too quickly, he stared about him for a moment, before tucking his legs up against his chest, still gazing gingerly about him. He brought his hands up to his neck instinctively, partly to protect himself and partly just to check that it had happened—that he could still feel the ghostly pinpricks of two sharpened teeth at his neck, pressing gently, lovingly down. It was almost as if it had never happened, but when he looked down at his hand, he saw the purpling bruise blossoming about his wrist, as if it were a bracelet the boy had left him with as a gift. He needed to close his eyes, to clear his head, but he was still terrified, and so it took him a while of sitting there and just _breathing _before he was able to even think about returning to the flat.

He pulled himself shakily to his feet—and, as he did so, something dropped off his lap and onto the ground below.

He hesitated briefly, before reaching down to pick it up.

It was a white lily, with a single stain of black marring one of its petals.

Something about it made his blood feel ice cold.

He turned it over between his fingers, before placing it, with trembling hands, in his pocket.

He couldn't stop himself from running all the way home.

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_now we're torn, torn, torn apart, there's nothing we can do  
>just let me go<em>

_(we'll meet again soon)_

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* * *

><p><strong>notes: <strong>I've not forgotten about Fifty Days, and, though I did give up on it for a little while, I'm beginning to enjoy writing again, so there _will _be updates.


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